And Now for Something Completely Different
by JennaEf
Summary: A series of one off stories- driven by prompts, suggestions, and whatever whims take hold. There will be humor, there will be angst, there could be crossovers- sky is the limit. Co-authored by Cyberbutterfly and myself. Rated Teen for safety.
1. Prologue A message from your sponsors

Attention… We are interrupting you regularly scheduled broadcast to bring you something completely different.

Effective immediately (in other words- sometime in the near future) Cyberbutterfly and I will be writing a series of one shot Sherlock tales –based on the ideas and prompts you (the viewing audience) provide.

It will go on as long as we (and you) want it to… Because- let's be honest- if it's worth doing well- it's also worth doing to excess.

These tales can range from the heart warming to the absurd; from the wonderful to the ridiculous. There is nothing (or very little) we will say 'no' to… There is nothing too bizarre that we will not consider. Just remember- reality is in the eye of the beholder, so everything is possible.

This, our dear viewers, is about having FUN… It's about taking that detective we all know and love and going "what if"… It's about finishing a story and going "Ooh- lets do it again!"… It's about us writing your idea and having you go "Jeez- these people will write about ANYTHING."

So, our dear readers, feel free to buckle in- we are about to take you on a ride!

Now for the practical side of things.

General rating will be T, to cover any type of story that might come up. As each chapter is displayed individual summaries, ratings, and warning will be posted at the beginning of the story.


	2. Sharp as Iron by Cyberbutterfly

**Summary: Everyone thinks Donovan and Sherlock hate one another... They will never (ever) be friends- but it doesn't mean they can't have a little fun.**

** Warning: Um, none really... Mild swearing is about it**

** Disclaimer: Saying it once... Do not own, much to my disappointment.**

_As Iron sharpens Iron, so one man sharpens another  
Proverbs 27:17_

In truth, it was the quiet moments in the cab just before reaching the crime scene Sherlock loved the most; the excitement of a new mystery, the thrill at the chase, and the knowledge that his sparring partner would be waiting to strike.

Agent Sally Donovan.

It hadn't always been that way. At first, she had simply mirrored what the rest thought of him: vague interest, faint amusement, and mild disdain at the idea of any officer needing his help.

During this time, she had actually been relatively polite, and mildly interested in what he said; in other words - boring.

Then there was THE case, his tenth case as police aid to be exact. Five years ago; triple homicide - all children - and no profile that would fit the killer's methods. It had been a wonderful challenge with a killer that showed signs of actually being competent. Was it any wonder that he'd been excited at the thrill of the hunt?

Still - Donovan had taken an exception to his excitement; going as far as reprimanding his actions to the Chief Inspector. It had been Lestrade that had sorted things out in his usual annoying - but dependable - fashion. He was forced to act at crime scenes 'In a manner better fitted for a gentleman in public service', and Lestrade was forced to act as a go between for Sherlock and Scotland Yard. (Although, Lestrade often told him the description 'part time babysitter' was a more apt title… It was comments like that which resulted in Sherlock's habit of pocketing his badge.)

For a year, agent Donovan wage war on him - condemning him as a psychopath at every instance (High Functioning Sociopath - thank you very much) and demanding that he should be locked up for the public's safety… At least she was more interesting this way - if not predictable.

Then came the OTHER case; a homicide case where all evidence pointed to a friend of Donovan's. It was not the 'who' - he certainly wasn't trying to endear himself to the woman - but the 'how' that drew him to the case. Two days later the true killer was arrested (a vengeful neighbor) and the friend's name cleared.

He still remembers what Donovan said to him after she released her friend.

"Don't think for a moment that this will change anything; you're still a freak. And more than likely, one day you'll be standing over a body you put  
there… So I'm going to watch you - I'll wait to see when or if you cross that line."

It was one of the most tender and sentimental things she'd ever said to him. Oh, the words were harsh - but any idiot who even looked at the woman could read the subtext.

They would never like one another, and it'd be a cold day in hell before either of them would remotely be friends. But - honorable adversaries - now that was a role both would be happy to fulfill.

It was John getting out of the cab that shook him from his reverie. Walking up to the crime scene he heard John groan as Donovan turned to face them. Sherlock made sure the internal smile never made it to his face.

"Great it's the freak." She turned to John "How can you still be so desperate for company that you'll settle for him?"

It was a typical jab, but like an age old ceremony, it signaled the beginning of the battle as clearly as a trumpet call. Unfortunately, an earlier argument with Harry had left John bristling and ready for a fight - he'd have to act quickly.

"Say nothing John. She'll only drag you down to her level of stupidity and then beat you with experience."

"Stupidity, right… So tell me, freak, how's your astronomy coming."

Ouch, that one was a bit below the belt. He was seriously going to have to stop telling John things if he insisted on sticking them on his damnable blog. Still, he had to give Donovan points - she could be inventive at times.

A figure in the doorway drew all their attention.

"Sorry to interrupt your little spat - but it'd be nice if we could get down to business sometime soon… If that doesn't interfere with anyone's schedule."

Hhhmmm… Looks like Lestrade is intending to be a prat tonight. He was going to pocket another ID before he left just on principle.

He began to walk, giving Donovan a brief glance. Disdain was written on her face, but the eyes, well the eyes had it. A brief glimmer of a smile laid  
there - the satisfaction that rests in a well worn routine that both have come to savor.

No - they will never be friends, never see eye to eye or even be in agreement on any points… But that doesn't mean they couldn't have fun.

He turned to John, and allowed a smile to come to the surface; he nodded to the door where a grisly murder awaited his deduction and began to walk.

And his sparring partner... Well she just fell into step behind them. Round one was over; round two was just getting started.

"Come on - the game is ON!"

**Okay- so from this point on, we need your prompts, your ideas, you crazy notions- so please send them in... Credit will be given where due for each story written by a suggested prompt unless we're asked not too.**


	3. Time is a valuable thing by JennaEf

**Summary: Sherlock's life is always dangerous, and he knows exactly, how precious his time is. But when you live on the edge, every mistake could be your last... Written for a prompt from iDestiny.**

**Warnings: ****Rated PG-13 for mentioned drug use.**

**Disclamer: I own nothing (regrettably)...  
**

The life of a human being is an extremely fragile thing. John Watson knows that for certain. There were so many lives he participated in saving, and regrettably, a few that had slipped away like the sand between his fingers. Those failures are still weighing heavily on him, and that is the main reason he vowed to save and protect Sherlock, whatever the cost.

For Sherlock Holmes, the main reason of his existence is THE GAME. He lives on the rush of the hunt, and the race against time makes his blood run faster in his veins and his eyes sparkle with life. Everything else just feels bleak, dull and boring; to live such ordinary life for Sherlock is literally to be buried alive.

And so, that's exactly how things work between them: Sherlock always walks the fine line between life and death, and John is always here to catch him, if he falls. The well oiled routine, their status quo. But there are times – and John fears them the most – when he simply isn't clever enough to notice the signs and save Sherlock in time. Luckily, his friend seems to have the ability to cheat on death, and he'd done that several times, in fact. John remembers those moments clearly, and they still hunt the ex-army medic in his sleep.

For example, there was the case of the miracle drug. It started with the very distraught young lady appearing in their living room one sunny spring morning. John, seeing her condition, immediately escorted their visitor to the armchair and went into the kitchen to make some tea.

"Good morning," Sherlock opened his eyes and regarded the young woman with mild interest. "So, what brings Miss Rebecca Thornbridge to our flat? Wait, let me guess. It's your fiancé, isn't it? Steven Hargrows, if I remember correctly. "

"Yes. But how do you know that?" the lady looked fairly impressed.

"Simple. I watched the latest news. He is accused of murder, and you want me to prove his innocence, am I right?"

"Yes, Mister Holmes. Steven… He simply couldn't have done that. He's the most generous and caring person in the world!"

"I believe that he is, Miss Thornbridge…"

"Rebecca, please."

"Rebecca. But I need you to be more specific. As I recall, he was found near his victim, and his condition was…"

"Insane," Rebecca's voice trembled. "He's being held in the mental hospital now, but… Mister Holmes, when I came to visit, he said that he didn't know me! And his eyes… They looked dead, lifeless… I don't understand what happened to my Steven. You're my last hope, Mister Holmes. Help me save him, please!"

In that moment John came back from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three cups of tea and biscuits. Seeing a slight frown on his friend's face – which clearly indicated that Sherlock was gradually becoming impatient – the ex-army doctor immediately tried to direct the conversation into the right path.

"And before that tragic event, did you noticed the changes in Steven's behaviour? Maybe something unusual?" asked John, passing one of the cups to Rebecca.

"Thank you," for the moment, Rebecca was silent, clearly deciding something. But finally, decision obvioisly was made, and she started speaking again. "I'm not sure if I should be telling you this, but if it helps to save him... I think it worth the wound, then. During the last two month Steven was working on some project… Top-secret, something about the vaccine for the military purposes. And in the last two weeks he really started acting strange…"

Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes sparking with interest. "Strange how?"

"He was angry, irritated… Started snapping at me without reason, and even hit me once. Oh, and he complained about insomnia and headaches."

"Interesting," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Well, you can safely assume that you've hired me, Rebecca."

Relief was evident on Rebecca's face, and she immediately started to search for something in her purse. Sherlock, having guessed what she was about to do, stopped her with the wave of his hand. "Don't bother. We will talk about that later."

John rolled his eyes and then glanced at his friend pointedly, but Sherlock just smiled sweetly and raised an eyebrow. After all, they had enough money to pay the upcoming rent, and the freezer was fully stocked, so John just let it slip. But if he only knew how that investigation will end, he'll probably paid Rebecca himself to ensure that she would never appear in their flat…

After Rebecca's departure Sherlock immediately texted Lestrade, and ten minutes later they were in the cab, speeding towards the Scotland Yard. There Sherlock managed to sweet-talk the Detective Inspector into showing him the case files. Then they rushed off to Steven's home, where the detective incidentally stumbled upon the scientist's hidden laboratory. Sherlock went through Steven's files with the fine-toothed comb, and soon singled out the desired data. More than that, he even managed to "borrow" a vial with the vaccine – although John, for the life of him, simply couldn't understand WHERE Sherlock found it.

Since that discovery, Sherlock busied himself with the extensive study of the acquired chemical. Apparently it was created for the purpose of enhancing the human abilities. The research papers clearly stated that the vaccine was still in development, and the work was slow-going. Eventually, Steven's employer became impatient and threatened to cut off the money. So the young man had made his choice – rather irrational, in John's opinion – to become the test subject. The first results were quite promising, but soon the side effects started to appear…

So, with all that evidence, Sherlock had been able to successfully prove that at the time, when Steven committed the crime, he was suffering from the side effects of his own invention. The course of treatment was developed, based on the results of Sherlock's investigation, and while Steven was going to spend several years in prison, at least now Rebecca had a solid reason to believe that everything will eventually going to be alright.

The case was solved, and Sherlock, as usual, seemed to store it safely away on his 'hard drive' and forget about it. But soon after that, John started to notice the changes in his friend's behaviour. Granted, Sherlock's behaviour was always eccentric, but now it seems to intensify tenfold. Concerned, the ex-army doctor decided to confront his flatmate on that account, but Sherlock simply waved him off, saying that everything's okay. Not satisfied with his friend's answer, John searched the entire flat in Sherlock's absence, and of course found nothing. But the nagging, uncomfortable feeling still remained…

The crisis came very soon. Sherlock clearly wasn't himself lately, and when they were chasing another suspect in downtown, he finally snapped. The criminal was armed with a knife, but still, Sherlock lunged at him, wrapping his hands around the man's neck and starting to squeeze mercilessly. It took two stab wounds from the suspect and a chokehold from John to finally tear the detective away from his victim. By that time Lestrade managed to catch up with them and apprehend the suspect, and John was left waiting for an ambulance with the bleeding Sherlock on his hands. That's when he finally discovered a multiple fresh needle marks on his friend's arms…

And from that moment, there were a long road of healing and recovery for Sherlock, and a few sleepless nights and recurring nightmares for John. But the main confrontation between two friends was still looming on a horizon.

A month had passed, and finally, Mycroft's black car dropped Sherlock off at Baker Street 221B. The detective was slightly cross with the fact that John didn't come to take him home from the hospital, but, on the other hand, the good doctor had a solid reason to be angry and disappointed, so Sherlock decided just to go with the flow and see what comes out of it.

John was waiting for him in the living room, but before Sherlock managed to utter a greeting, the ex-army doctor strode towards him, drew his arm back and punched the younger man square in the face. Shocked and spluttering indignantly, Sherlock found himself colliding with the wall, only to be pulled into a strong embrace a moment later.

"What the hell was that for?" the dark-haired man managed eventually, hand still pressed to his aching jaw.

"No reason," the older man replied off-handedly. "Oh, wait, I think I have one. Because you're an idiot. Did it occur to you that your experiment could have ended much worse? That you might've died, for instance?"

Sherlock grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "But I didn't. Stop worrying, John, I'm still a clever idiot"

"Hopeless, as always. Tea?"

"Would be lovely, thanks."

They separated and went in the opposite directions: John – towards the kitchen and Sherlock – towards the sofa, only to meet again in the living room, sitting comfortably across each other and sipping their tea.

They talked about a lot of things that evening. Trust, carelessness, responsibility, the meaning of life, addiction, self-confidence, dependency, respect, generosity – the topics changed, flowing into each other, and soon all unresolved issues seemed to fade away, leaving two of them to simply enjoy the pleasant conversation. They even came to some sort of an agreement, such as Sherlock not trying to outrun the hands of time and John keeping an eye on him to ensure it. Of course, deep inside John pretty much doubted that Sherlock will ever stop trying, but, well, a man could dream, after all…

There was only one question left, that still bothered John, and Sherlock, being Sherlock, picked at it eventually. Tilting his head slightly, the detective recited his line from their first day. "Okay, you've got questions."

John immediately and happily played along. "Well, only one, actually. Where did you hide it?"

Sherlock's answering smile was positively blinding. "Oh, you're going to love this. You were staring at it every day without even realising."

"What do you mean?"

The detective rose from the sofa and went to the mantelpiece. John watched, dumbfounded, as his friend took the clock and pressed the hidden button. There was a soft 'click', and the glass fell out. Sherlock caught it swiftly and handed it to his friend.

"The art of disguise, my dear John, is knowing how to hide in plain sight," the consulting detective said with satisfaction, replacing the now missing part of the clock. "By the way, feel free to destroy it by any means necessary."

The glass turned to be, in fact, a lens filled with the colorless liquid. John stared at it for several seconds, and then chuckled quietly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but John waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said, still grinning. "But I think I understand the meaning of the phrase "Time is a valuable thing" quite perfectly now. And Sherlock, you have a weirdest sense of humour. That's a given."

With that, John went to the kitchen window, opened it and threw the lens out, watching with delight as it smashed into a myriad sparking pieces.

"Yeah, well, whatever," the great detective was again stretched out on the sofa. "Just don't put that in your blog, or I'll password-protect your computer. And your phone too. With my personal cipher."

John started to answer, but Sherlock was already out like a light. Shaking his head, John snatched the blanket from the chair and carefully tucked his sleeping friend in.

Life was still good at Baker Street 221B, no matter what happened.

**Once again- please prompt... You give us the idea we'll make it into a story.**


	4. Highly Improbable by Cyberbutterfly

**This story is brought to you by co-author Cyberbutterfly, so I'm just relaying the message ;)  
**

**Summary: A visitor at 221B Baker Street has Sherlock confused... Why is John so upset at him?... Why is he calling John 'Arthur'?... And what kind of name is 'Ford Prefect' anyway?**

**A completely INSANE prompt by Pikeru's Angel... Thanks, I had a blast writing it :D**

**Warnings: Non really... Very mild language, bizarre people and circumstances.**

**Further notes: If you've watched the Hitchhikers movie, you'll get enough to find this entertaining- but this story was based primarily on the story set up in the novels.**

_Anything that happens happens._

_Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen causes something else to happen._

_Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again._

_It doesn't necessarily need to happen in chronological order, though._

-Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless

_There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable._

_There is another theory which states that this has already happened._

- Douglas Adams, Restaurant at the End of the Universe

Thursdays were bad on basic principle. Sundays were worse.

Well… That's not exactly so… It was Sundays after a month long dry spell from cases, with a flat mate that believed shooting holes in the wall with a gun was a good way to add some cheer that was worse.

Going further, it was Sunday afternoons with the terrible listlessness that started to set in about 2:55, when you know you've taken all the experiments and violin playing you can usefully take that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the newspaper in a desperate hope to ignore said 'friend', you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new gaming console it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hand will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will rush from the flat to ensure that the next body investigated will NOT in fact BE the body of one Sherlock bloody Holmes.

In any case, it's how the whole strange event started… With an already frustrated (and it should be said, equally bored) John returning to 221B Baker street to find Sherlock getting out of a black car; the event made stranger because Mycroft was clearly in the same car and neither brother made a move to assault the other.

Clearly Sherlock was either so desperate for a case he had actually agreed to help his brother with something; or this was the first step toward the end of the world.

You'd be surprised at which one John had his money on.

John looked at Sherlock suspiciously as he unlocked the door to the flat.

"What was Mycroft here about?"

Sherlock just shook his head.

"Nothing important… But apparently there is someone waiting in our flat he is curious about."

It was those kinds of cast away comments which John had learned to regard with a varying sense of happiness, fear, loathing, excitement, hatred, wonderment, disbelief, and (on rare occasions) acceptance. Therefore, he stepped into their flat prepared for anything.

Well… Almost anything.

What he was not, or ever would be, ready to handle was the sight of a non- descript looking man sitting in their living room; he was dressed in a style that many would call professionally casual.

For a moment John said nothing; thought about it some more, and then decided to continue on with not speaking. It seemed the smartest thing to say.

The quiet stretched on, hanging in the apartment air much the same way that a brick wouldn't.

Finally Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke.

"Right… So you are an alien, AND the reason why Mycroft and Torchwood are ringing me, then?"

The man stretched out his legs and took a swallow of the drink in his hand. He gave Sherlock a wide smile; clearly please at the level of insane normality the question was asked with.

"Not really. Though apparently they are touchy about persons double parking a spaceship in their city … Actually, I came here to talk to him."

John jerked at being mentioned. He looked up, abandoning his plans at silence in favor of a new tactic; absolute panic.

"NO! Doubly NO…. In no way what-so-ever! Do not pass 'Go' do not collect 200 quid. Ford! What the HELL are you doing here? What part of 'Thanks for the nightmares, please feel free to ensure you never come near me again' DIDN'T you understand?"

Ford look at John confused, "Um, Arthur…." He trailed off.

Sherlock looked at both of them, appearing shocked that he seemed the only one in the room not understanding the riddle…. "Arthur?"

"JOHN! It's John!" John choked out.

"Right… 'John'" Ford said, narrowing his eyes… "Um, how are you able to remember me?"

John thought about combining his two ideas and living out the rest of the night in panicked silence; ultimately he decided that idea was far too rational for this kind of crowd.

In light of that revelation, John walked over to the sofa and unceremoniously flopped down upon it. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Ford and offered a strangled laugh… although the more fitting description for it made might have been "clamped down scream."

"Do you remember Stavro's?"… Ford Nodded…. "Great, do you remember the part where the universe itself ended and was remade?"… Ford nodded again…. "Fantastic. Do you remember how you told me the mind wipe process was quick, easy, painless, and fool proof."

Ford looked as if he was considering saying something, but simply leaned back in the chair and nodded once again; John sighed.

"Problem with anything that they tell is you one hundred percent fool proof is that it means there's a Ninety-nine percent chance of a fool beating the odds."

Ford contemplated something for a moment. "Should have stuck with the Santranginus or Jaglan Beta mind products… There are some things you just simply get what you pay for."

John just continued to sit there and contemplated the chances of getting away with murder, while Sherlock happened to be in the room watching at the time… He almost made up his mind to give it a try when that line of thinking forced his mind back to his flat mate; who, in a curious gesture so unlike himself that it brought to mind an old scene from 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers', had remained silently leaning against the kitchen table with what appeared to be no intention of interrupting or asking any questions.

Ultimately his sense of British reserve forced him to act.

"Sherlock, this is Ford Prefect… No, don't ask… Ford my flat mate Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded his head in Ford's direction, who returned the gesture by raising his glass in a friendly gesture. John made a mental note to check his bottle of Rye to see just how much Ford had consumed before they had arrived home. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out an exasperated sigh.

"You know, it's times like this, when I'm sitting in my flat talking with a man from Betelgeuse, who's probably about to make my life- once again- completely miserable, that I really wish I'd listened to what my mother told me when I was younger."

Ford looked interested. "Why, what did she tell you?"

John rolled his eyes and sighed, "I don't know, I didn't listen."

Sherlock cleared his throat in a way that suggested that perhaps it was time to have normality restored to the room. John looked up and gave him a small smile, already beginning to feel sorry for whatever his flat mate was about to get dragged into; although considering his character, and desired past times "dragged" might be slightly inaccurate. Sherlock looked at him.

"John… Or Arthur… While I'm finding it fascinating to stand here and watch you have a rather interesting argument with a man I've established to be an alien from somewhere on or near Betelgeuse; that clearly you've had your memory altered- unsuccessfully- to forget about the whole thing; there are plot holes in this story that even I can't deduce and I'd very much like them filled."

"Right," John said after a moment, "actually having to admitting you can't figure it out…. So on theoretical scale of pain- 1 being lowest and 10 being high-"

"Somewhere around 42," Sherlock interrupted.

John covered his hand with his face and groaned, leaving Sherlock looking at him like a man who'd just found a dog with two heads and 5 legs while discovering it could do advanced calculus.

"You just HAD to pick that bloody number, didn't you?"

Sherlock looked about to say something and John just waved his hand in the random direction of a chair.

"Never mind… Just grab a cup of something and sit down- this is going to take a while."

John paused for a second to gather his thoughts, and then thought better of it; clear thinking had no more place with this crowd than rationality. So he simply began at the beginning with as much grace as a fish on a bicycle (although whoever crafted that metaphor clearly had never witness the spectacular acrobatics of the fish circus on the 3rd moon of Bartledan)

He carried on for quite a while actually, with random comments thrown in by Ford which were completely useless.

By the end he had covered everything from Vogon's and bad poetry, to restaurants at the end of universes, Earth's (twice) demise, manically depressed robots, Presidents who kidnap themselves, improbability drive, 42, animals that want to be eaten, impossible quests, the smartest species on Earth, the Guide, towels, techniques on flying (fling yourself at the ground and miss), riding time vortexes on sofas, reincarnated beings and how to avoid continuously killing them, hitchhiking, and a rather fateful taxi ride.

Finally he got to the question of life, the universe, and everything and how it all ended.

Sherlock digested it all not only silently, but without any sign of overt surprise.

"So, you're telling me that you managed to destroy the universe simply by finding out how it works?"

"We didn't destroy it," Ford explained "We simply aided in its reconstruction… What we didn't know was that the universe was created with a built in self-destruct clause… If anyone discovered what the Universe is for, it would instantly disappear and be replaced by something else."

Sherlock looked from one to the other, "So- what was the answer- or rather- what was the question, then?"

Ford and John answered together "We don't know."

Ford continued, "We KNEW… There at the end… But that universe is gone, rebuilt into this one- so both the question and the answer are different. Whatever we knew then, has no bearing on what we know now, you know?"

Sherlock nodded, and his face suggested an acceptance of the bizarre that would probably have the men with the large butterfly nets running for the nearest white jacket with wrap around sleeves.

Fortunately Sherlock was the type of friend who enjoyed insanity… And was quite able to get himself out of those kind of jumpers, although where that skilled was learned is a mystery never revealed to John.

Still, they were traits John silently admired about Sherlock- though that tidbit is best kept that between you and the fence post.

After a moment in thought, Sherlock turned to John.

"So after the universe was rebuilt, you had your memory erased-"

"More like rewritten," interrupted John. "I just got so sick of it all; I figured that if the universe got a bloody do-over, why couldn't I... No need to fabricate a childhood-surprisingly, the new Earth covered my tracks for me. I just had to fill in the gaps of why I was missing for a while. I've actually been back on for about a year and a half now"

Sherlock studied them both, eyes narrowed in thought.

"And you had the memory of a soldier implanted… Why the injury? Why not just take honorable discharge?"

John laughed humorlessly. "Because I WAS in Afghanistan, and I WAS shot… When I woke up on Earth, I had no memory of anything more than what you guessed or I told you about… It wasn't an act- I didn't know any better myself. So I fought the good fight, and got that discharge anyway."

Sherlock studied him, "Something changed though… When did you start to remember?"

Ford leaned forward in his chair eager to hear the reason himself. Somehow Arthur had beaten the odds and overrode his programming- that was impressive considering the method.

It was a programming technique that had been reverse-engineered from the sort o psychotic mental blocks that otherwise perfectly normal people had been observed invariably to develop when elected to high political office… It should not have cracked.

John answered. "It was during the banker's case, just after I had been kidnapped. When I woke up strapped in that chair, I looked over at the wall and somebody had spray painted "Don't Panic" in large friendly yellow letters… Between that and the concussion- it just all came back."

Ford tried to maneuver his thoughts around this. Because of an interesting effect of drinking an entire bottle of rye, it was like having an oil tanker do a three-point turn in the English Channel.

Eventually John/Arthur continued.

"For a while, it was exactly like being schizophrenic. Two voices- the old me and the new me… Finally I just decided to go with the flow, and I've pretty much just been plain old John Watson. Any time I need something that Arthur would know, I just tap into it like I would if I was reading something in a book."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "And you would have kept going on that way, revealing nothing, except for the fact that there is now a man from a planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse sitting in our flat drinking the last of your rye."

He looked up at Ford.

"Which begs the question, why are you here."

Ford shrugged. "I thought saving Arthur the first time was a favor. Turns out- maybe not. I felt bad, so when I found out this Earth was going to be attacked, I thought I should give him warning."

"WHAT?" It was a resounding question expressed by both John and Sherlock, in a tone that suggested overall lack of appreciation for Ford's conscience.

"Please tell me, Ford," John started "Why you felt to leave that little piece of information until NOW."

Ford shrugged again. "It's not like your demise is immanent - we've got a month to do something about it… Besides, when I found out, I sent a package to this address; I figured you could give it to Torchwood as a backup plan."

"Sent it when? What package?" John fumed.

"About the same time I learned of the attack- and the possibility of losing- AGAIN- that great footwear store on the Lower East Side in New York… About two months ago." Ford explained. "When I told Zaphod about it, he did some digging and handed me that package; said it might be useful for Earth to have."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose and counted down from 10.

"Right… I remember it now… It had the words 'Do not open unless otherwise directed under penalty of death by badgers' on it… It reminded me of you- so I came damn close to burying it in six feet of peat moss….. What is it?"

Ford thought a moment. "Not sure, Zaphod didn't say. I think it may be something possibly dangerous though."

"And you sent it to ME?" John protested.

"Safest place I could think of. Torchwood would only get curious and I though I could rely on you to be absolutely boring and not open it."

Sherlock looked so happy someone might think he was dazed.

"So, you intend to stop this attack then."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good pair of shoes in this galaxy?" Ford replied… "Normally I wouldn't interfere. My doctor says that I have a malformed public-duty gland and a natural deficiency in moral fiber… But some things are worth the self sacrifice."

"I think you and I have a different value system, Ford." John said dryly.

"Well, mines better."

Sherlock jumped up and rubbed his hand together; John groaned. He knew that gesture as well as a most ducks knew how to fly… Sherlock was interested, and nothing he said was going to change that.

"When do we leave?"

"Now hang on a minute" John said crossly.

"Now… Actually, my meter was up five minutes ago, so we leave then." Ford stated mater-of-factly as he got up and wandered into the bathroom

John began to stutter in rage; slowly realizing that the wave of inevitability was washing over him. It was funny how just when you think life can't get any worse it suddenly does.

Sherlock turned to him and grabbed his shoulders.

"Come on John… Just think… A chance to see the Universe!"

"Seen it, thanks." John replied weakly.

Ford came back into the room and handed each of them a towel. He stepped back and assessed them both, nodding and heading towards the door. Sherlock looked confused for a moment, and then smiled as he remembered what John had said about the guide's instructions on always knowing where your towel was.

Sherlock took one look at the Ford and then looked back at John, deciding. Finally he smiled and grabbed his coat.

"Come on John… This time, the game is completely and totally ON!"

With that he strolled to the door and walked out. John could hear him yelling on the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson. Important matters have come up. We will be unavailable for the near future… Perhaps for some of the past as well… Oh, when Mycroft stops by, tell him there's a packaged to be delivered to Torchwood; it's in John's room- top drawer."

John looked at the towel around his neck and then at the flat. Making a final decision, John yanked on his coat and rushed down the stairs- lunging into the cold London night as Sherlock and Ford we're getting into a cab. He jumped in after them and slammed the door.

"Alright… Fine…. But once we're away, we'll damn well better be grabbing something to eat."

Ford smiled. "Well, I sure Sherlock would love to have a bite at-"

"NO! I want NOTHING to do with ends of universes whatsoever." John interrupted. "We are saving the Earth, and then we are coming home."

"John?"

"What, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "Don't Panic."

**As always... Please send in your ideas and prompts... You suggest it, we'll write it.**


	5. Hard Goodbye: Part 1 by Cyberbutterfly

**Summary: A late night phone call has Private Detective Sherlock Holmes racing to a strange meeting... One which will send his world crashing down around him. Part 1 of a 3 (or 4 depending) Parter (written by Cyberbutterfly)... Based once again on a prompt by Pikeru's Angel. **

**Warning: Harsh character death, Minor swearing, could get violent later on, IS going to get angsty. **

**Further Notes: I have shamlessly ripped off ideas from the a particular movie... So if you note similarities- we, good for you... It was a fantastic movie, and I'm glad you've seen it.**

**Characters might be a little OC- I'll try to keep that to a minium, but it's all for a reason, as the story will reveal later. In this one, Sherlock is a Private Eye, John isn't around (yet), the setting/timeline really doesn't have an age... It's film noir style, so I'm pulling everything from the 1950's onwards.**

The Hard Goodbye- Part I: Let Wither the Wrongs of the World

_Sherlock... Please, Sherlock, pick up the phone..._

_Alright... Okay... Just listen. I know this doesn't make sense, but please, just listen._

_I shouldn't be doing this. God knows what will happen to you if I do- but I need someone to know the truth. Someone to understand that, at the end, I had no choice._

_It started with that case, the one involving the bookstore... Can you believe that? All it takes is a damn Bookstore to show just how pointless this all really is._

_Listen... The phones aren't safe- I shouldn't even be leaving this on here... I'll meet you where we started at 2:00am... Just... God, man... Just be careful- I'm not sure even YOU will be able to see them coming._

Sherlock held the phone to his ear, listening to the message for the tenth time. Despite what people think, there are rules to Sherlock's world; one set in stone that dictate his very being.

It was interesting to think how easily one little message could bollix that world right up.

Of course, there were questions to be asked, and answered- but why that location? Why couldn't it be spoken over the phone? What were the events that could possibly shake Lestrade so badly to ensure such panic?

Sherlock's thought splashed across his brain like London's night rain across the cabby's windows. A flash of lightning reveals traces of scarred flesh running down the right side of his face; burn marks on his right hand tell a similar tale of a game that was played and almost lost.

Sherlock looked out into the rain and went over the events in his head. The bookstore case had been a simple one. Double homicide over a rare book which would fetch around 80,000 Euro's if you found an auctioneer who knew what he was doing.

Lestrade's interest had been garnered by natural curiosity; the man loved to read, and had an appreciation for old and rare editions.

Sherlock's had been obtained after his Landlady reminded him that there are plenty of people in London willing to pay their rent on time.

No- it wasn't anything to do with the case- it was after the case that Lestrade had started to act strangely. Missing time from work, disappearing for days, becoming secretive. Sherlock had kept and eye on him out of principle- the man was the closest thing to a friend, and had stood by and defended his actions after the explosion at the pool.

The cab came to a halt and Sherlock pulled himself out of his reverie. Handing the driver cash, he leapt from the cab and began to make his way to the bridge. Cars were backed up, waiting for the bridge to lower from letting a cargo ship go through.

The coded meeting on the phone had been an obvious one; but it was a curious thing that Lestrade had picked Tower Bridge.

It was the location of first case Sherlock ever worked with Lestrade; around 6 years ago.

Both were investigating a series of serial suicides, the Inspector was curious about it being the chosen suicide location for a women in pink; Sherlock- a private detective hired by the family- was studying the location of the murder and pinpointing key designs of the bridge.

Lestrade thought he was a jumper, Sherlock pointed out that Lestrade was an idiot... The Inspector simply raised an eyebrow, chuckled, and asked for his opinion on the case, and an unlikely friendship followed.

Now Lestrade was waiting for him in the rain... Of course it would have to be a late night meeting, on a deserted bridge, in the rain; meetings like this cannot happen any other way.

He turned up the collar of his trench coat and pulled his fedora further down on his head in a pointless attempt to shield himself from the weather. As he walked up to Lestrade, the cargo ship underneath signalled his safe passage across the raised bridge.

Lestrade nodded to Sherlock and raised a cigarette to his lips. Sherlock nodded in return and noted as Lestrade took a deep drag.

"Given up our resolve, have we?"

Lestrade snorted.

"Is this the point where I actually get lectured by you?"

"What?... God no! The closest thing I'm opting for is to tell you not to be a hoarding prat."

Lestrade laughed humourlessly and handed the half smoked pack over to Sherlock. He pulled one out and lit it. As the bridge began to lower, both men turned and looked out at the turbulent and dangerous waters below. Minutes rolled by as each took drags on their smokes while in the distance, cars readied themselves to cross the bridge.

It was Lestrade who broke the silence first, looking down at his hands as he flicked the smoke into the water and gently began twisting the wedding ring on his hand

"It's just all gone wrong, somehow."

Sherlock was surprised. For starters, Lestrade was not a defeatist; secondly, his voice was completely flat- as if caring was just too much effort at this point.

"What has?"

"Everything."

Lestrade looked up into the rain and sighed.

"Have you ever just taken a drive, Sherlock? I don't mean going somewhere different- I mean have you ever just gotten into a car and just drove until you find yourself on the edge of it all?"

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and then at the hand that continued to twist the ring. A chill ran down his spine that the worst rainfall couldn't top.

"What are you talking about?"

Lestrade looked down and sighed.

"It was the bookstores; from when you were figuring out the books worth. That's where it started, at least. Hatchords on 187 A4 West-Minster. It was one of those old places with the floor to ceiling shelves. It reminded me of the shop my uncle owned when I was a boy... The owner and I got to talking after I questioned him, and I decided to spend some time looking through his older editions."

"Lestrade why don't-"

"Doyle" Lestrade interrupted. "Look for an author named 'Arthur Conan Doyle'... I've left you a note in one of his books. You'll know which one when you see it."

Lestrade swore quietly.

"I shouldn't do this. It's dangerous for you to know, but I need you to understand."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, studying him. The fear showed in his eyes but not on his face; it was the same expression Sherlock bore as well. He went to say something, then paused and restarted.

"You not making any sense."

"I know that... Dear god man, I know exactly how nuts I sound... That's why I can't tell you much more than what I have. Because as Looney as this all sounds now, if I was to just simply explain it to you, then you would think I was insane."

Lestrade sighed angrily and shook his head.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but this is something you have to discover for yourself. I've left you clues, given you a starting point- but that's as far as I can go; anything more is just too risky... I can't be sure, but from everything I've learned, you seem to be the exception to the rule... And maybe that means they can't get to you like they can with everyone else."

Sherlock studied Lestrade for another minute and then glanced over as traffic began to flow back onto the bridge... It was unusually quiet, even for this time of night. Finally he turned back.

"The world doesn't just go wrong because of a book."

Lestrade turned to look at him, and Sherlock was shocked to see that his eyes - eyes which had always been so emotional and readable- were now hollow. These were the eyes of a dead man whose body had yet to learn the news.

"That really depends on the reading material, doesn't it?"

Sherlock took a step forward and reached a hand out, grasping the Inspectors arm.

"Silvia will be worried, Lestrade. Why don't we-"

"Silvia's dead, Sherlock."

Sherlock paled and stepped back, jerking his hand away. His legs suddenly refused to support him, and he leaned against the railing.

"What?"

"I got a phone call about eight this evening, someone claiming to have information."

Lestrade's voice began to crack, and he paused to clear his throat.

"It was a ruse. I think someone decided that it was best if I was simply taken out of the equation..."

He looked down at his hands, and Sherlock noted for the first time that there was blood on Lestrade's shirt and jacket. He continued on, the unshed tears pushing through into his voice

"They killed her while she cleaned up from dinner; someone just walked up behind her and put a bullet in her head... Like she was worth nothing. Like she was nobody"

He laughed a strangled, heartless laugh.

"And you know what the worst part is? In a way, they're right... We're all just numbers and shadows."

Lestrade waved his hand, stopping anything Sherlock was going to say.

"The gun was mine. So are the fingerprints on it... In fact, I can tell you that every piece of gathered information is going to prove that it was me... I'm not asking you to prove my innocence- actually I'd rather you didn't waste the time... I just need you to believe."

Lestrade turned to face Sherlock, backing up in slow steps as he spoke.

"I just need someone willing to believe that no matter what the evidence and people say- I was a good man, and an honest cop- even at the end."

Later on, Sherlock would come to realize that he had known the outcome of the meeting from the moment he received the phone call. But like a man playing a predetermined role, he could do nothing but say his lines and watch as his friend grabbed the side railing and leapt into the abyss separating the bridge from the water.

It was the resounding splash that pulled him from his routed spot and over to where he had jumped.

"GABRIEL!"

Sherlock looked down at the black waters, praying to any deity that would listen to let Lestrade be alright- let the whole night be a trick.

After five minutes of staring into the churning tides and calling the Inspectors name, Sherlock finally made the call to Scotland Yard. It was while he was there giving his testimony- with parts left out- that he received the news that Lestrade's body had been found.

The murder suicide made the front pages of all the newspaper, as more and more horrid details were found. Within a week, everyone knew the name Gabriel Taylor Lestrade and what he had allegedly done.

Standing outside of 184 4A West-Minster a week later, Sherlock couldn't help but think that a store cheerily called Hatchards Bookshop couldn't look more ominous if it was covered in pentagrams and the windows were coated in blood.

But he was going in there, no matter what the cost; because Gabriel had died for what was in there, and because, for all the facts the newspapers told, none of them realized the greatest fact of all:

That night on the bridge a good man had died, and Sherlock lost the only person he had ever considered a friend... And he was damn well going to find out why.

TBC

**Seriously guys... We're starting to run out of prompts... Which is scary for a fiction based soley on them... So, send in whatever. It can be a word, a sentence, a complete idea, hell a full summary of a story... Anything you send in, we will work with and write.**


	6. Hide and Seek by JennaEf

**Summary: Sherlock and John are called to investigate the housebreaking incident. But why John is so reluctant to go? And why are they acting so strange at the crime scene? Written for a prompt by freakgirlXD.**

**Warnings: Minor swearing.**

"No, no, and again, NO, Sherlock! I'm not doing that, absolutely!" I cross my arms on my chest resolutely.

Sherlock pulls a face. "Oh, come on, John, it's going to be fun!"

"Fun? FUN? No, Sherlock. A court case is definitely NOT funny."

"Who says anything about a court case? Relax, John, everything's going to be okay," Sherlock's already standing in the doorway - coat on, a scarf around his neck, and his hands clad in gloves. "Coming?"

"Do I have a choice?" my resolve starts to crumble, but I'm still trying not to give up so easily.

"Do I have to say the magic word?" Sherlock contradicts, raising his eyebrow. There is a mischievous glint in his eyes, and I groan inwardly. "_Dangerous._"

"I hate to disappoint you, Sherlock, but your usual trick isn't going to work this time. Simply because it's REALLY dangerous."

"Don't be so dramatic, John," Sherlock scoops his toolkit from the table and shoves it into his pocket. And then freezes abruptly, a slight frown creasing his forehead. A second later he begins checking his pockets frantically.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" I ask, starting to worry a little.

"As a matter of fact, yes," he glances at me, clearly agitated. "I lost my Eschenbach somewhere."

"Your what?"

"My magnifier, John. Don't be dumb."

And then the realisation dawns on us both, and we speak simultaneously.

"You think it was…" "I'm pretty sure that…"

Then we both shut up, and look at each other. Sherlock quirks up an eyebrow.

"Well, now it's pretty obvious that we SHOULD go, John. Lestrade's going to put two and two together the moment he sees it. So all we have to do is find it and distract him. Apart from that, he has nothing on us."

Suddenly, I find the carpet VERY fascinating. "Not exactly," I mumble.

"I didn't quite catch that, John," Sherlock says, his voice sounding unnaturally calm.

I take a deep breath and meet his eyes resolutely. "I think they probably have my blood samples already."

Sherlock's face goes blank, and I wince slightly. This is bad. This is VERY bad. I'm about to get it, big time.

"How, exactly?" he tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes.

"Well, you asked me to check the garbage in the kitchen, remember?" he nods. "I cut my finger on a broken glass." Sherlock closes his eyes. "I know, I know. I'm an idiot."

He opens his eyes and fixes me with the hard stare. "That's a bit of understatement, John," he says acidly. "Anything else I should know about?"

"N-no," I find myself stammer unexpectedly.

"Well, what a relief," now his voice tinted with sarcasm. Then he turns away and steeples his hands in front of his mouth – undoubtedly already calculating the possibilities. Five minutes later he spins around, takes a step forward and jabs a finger into my chest, causing me to stumble back slightly. "Okay, listen to me, and listen carefully. This is how we are going to play it…"

* * *

Half an hour later we arrive at the crime scene. Lestrade is waiting for us outside of the flat.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Thank you for coming," he pushes himself up from his slouching position against the wall.

"Good evening," Sherlock stuffs his hands in his pockets and stands still, patiently waiting for Lestrade to continue speaking.

The Detective Inspector gets a notepad out of his pocket and consults with his notes briefly. "Well, it's obviously one of those funny cases you love so much. A housebreaking incident, nothing was taken, and no evidence, except maybe a few drops of blood in the kitchen."

"Blood?" Sherlock tilts his head to the side.

"Yes. Looks like our suspect incidentally cut himself. That's what we know so far. I'm hoping that you can tell us the rest." Lestrade finally opens the door and ushers us inside. "Take your time, Sherlock. I need your full assessment of the situation."

The cut on my hand required two band-aids, and I'm reasonably keeping my hands in my pockets – at least until I could pull the gloves on.

Meanwhile Sherlock takes a stroll around the flat, pretending to study the surroundings. And he is playing his part perfectly, because I find myself almost forgetting WHY we are here. But that doesn't last long, because a moment later I see almost imperceptible change in Sherlock's demeanour. Guess he found it, after all.

"John, come here," my friend commands, dropping down into a low crouch and therefore becoming fully obscured by the sofa. "Take a look at this."

"What is it?" I ask as I cross the room and mimic Sherlock's position.

And then I see it. Right under the sofa, the corner of the casing barely peeking out.

"Looks like our burglar was quite clumsy. Do you see these scratches?"

"Where?" I lean a little close, and apparently, that's exactly what Sherlock needs. With the lightning speed he waves something odorous under my nose, and moment later I feel a tingling sensation in my nostrils. I shoot a scorching look his way, but he grins and reaches out just in time when I start sneezing violently.

"Bless!" Sherlock and Lestrade say in unison, but all I'm able to do at the moment is nod.

Concerned, Lestrade starts to move towards us, and Sherlock barely manages to snatch the magnifier and slip it into his coat pocket. Then he turns his head towards Lestrade, simultaneously pointing his finger at the fresh scratch marks on the floor. "Take a look at this, Inspector. The sofa was obviously moved. Our thief was searching for something."

"Under the sofa?" Lestrade asks in disbelief.

"Sometimes people choose to hide secrets in surprising places, Lestrade. Hidden compartments, for example. By the way, we can check this theory right now. Help me to move the sofa."

The vile stuff Sherlock managed to assault me with starts to evaporate, and I'm finally able to take a deep breath. Of course Sherlock notices that, and even enquires about my well-being immediately.

"Fine, thank you," I force out and smile at him. But inside I'm more than ready to throttle him; with great satisfaction, I may add.

"Good. We can use the additional pair of hands. Shall we, gentlemen?" he gestures at the sofa.

And right at that moment it hits me. He didn't lose his magnifier. He left it under the sofa on purpose. I open my mouth, the accusing words ready to tumble from my tongue, but Sherlock anticipates it, and his hand sneaks towards my side and tickles swiftly and mercilessly. Unable to stop myself, I double over and start giggling. Lestrade chuckles, Sherlock snorts, and I glare daggers at him.

_Just you wait when we get home, Sherlock bloody Holmes. I'm not the one being ticklish here…_

I shift away from my crazy flatmate, and Lestrade resolutely takes my place. Combining our efforts, we simultaneously push the sofa sideways, and – lo and behold – there's a sliding panel under it. Sherlock immediately opens the hidden cache and, reaching inside, brings out the pile of photos and a small leather case. Lestrade's attention are drawn to the discovered items immediately.

"Wait, are these…" he begins uncertainly.

"The missing Thorndike diamonds? Yes, of course."

"But that means…"

"Exactly, Detective Inspector. Now, can I see the kitchen? There's one thing I need to clarify. And after that I would be able to tell you the whole story about this housebreaking incident. As for diamonds – I'm sure you can figure that yourself."

"Be my guest," Lestrade gets up and points towards the kitchen.

Sherlock rises gracefully and strides almost lazily in that direction, leaving to us the only option of following him. In the kitchen he glances briefly at the stains on the floor, hums quietly and turns to face us. I wince slightly, remembering the source of those stains, and Sherlock quirks his eyebrow. I shrug my shoulders, he nods and starts speaking.

"This housebreaking was orchestrated from the beginning. Our two suspects…"

"Wait a minute!" Lestrade interrupts immediately. "How the hell…"

Sherlock huffs in irritation. "It's obvious. First, the weight of the sofa. Second – the different footprints indentations on the carpet. And third – one of them incidentally stepped into his own blood. If you look closer, you will see it."

"But if the cache was under the sofa, why check the garbage?" Lestrade asks, perplexed.

Involuntarily, I take a step forward and almost ruin everything by blurting the truth out, only to find myself suddenly hitting the floor, face down.

"My god, John, your clumsiness today is positively annoying," Sherlock remarks indignantly.

He actually TRIPPED me! I just can't believe it!

"And your lankiness is positively astounding," I grumble. "Just how many legs have you got, exactly? Because it looks like you've turned into bloody octopus!"

There's a strange chocking sound from Lestrade, and he hides his smile behind his hand.

"Ha-ha, John," Sherlock answers, keeping a straight face, but I can hear a whisper of warmth in his voice. "Now, back to our obvious not-crime incident. Those two were hired for the purpose of bringing the real thief out in the open. So, find the owner of the flat – and you'll find the thief. That's all I have to say about it."

"But those two, they..," Lestrade begins, but Sherlock cuts him short.

"Does it really matter, inspector? I think you have a bigger fish to fry, haven't you?"

The Detective Inspector contemplates my friend's words and nods finally.

"Good. Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to leave," Sherlock says, already pulling his gloves on.

"Alright, off you go. I'll keep you posted about the case."

"That would be marvellous," Sherlock turns to leave. "Come on, John. Afternoon, Inspector."

"Afternoon," Lestrade answers, already starting to sort through the photos…

* * *

When we return to Baker Street and the front door closes behind us, I immediately push Sherlock flat against the wall and start flexing my fingers deliberately and slowly, making sure that they are in his field of vision. When my friend realises what I'm about to do, his eyes widen.

"You wouldn't..," he begins shakily.

"You could damn well bet I will, Sherlock. Because you're bloody well deserve this."

I grin wolfishly and place my hands on Sherlock's sides, delving under his suit's jacket. My flatmate squeezes his eyes tightly shut, and his breath catches in his throat. Satisfied with the result, I pull away, and Sherlock's eyes immediately snap open.

"Next time I will not be so forgiving, Sherlock," I warn sweetly. "Now, how about the tea?"

"Good idea," Sherlock starts to pull off his coat, while I begin ascending the stairs.

It's only when we get to the living room that Sherlock chooses to deliver his answering tickling strike. Taken completely by surprise, I lose my footing, and attempt to stop my fall by grabbing onto Sherlock. He briefly struggles to support us both, but fails quickly, and we tumble to the floor, laughing almost hysterically.

Right after that, the battle begins, each of us giving back as good as he gets. Eventually, the scuffle dies down, leaving us gasping for breath on the floor and feeling exceptionally good. I roll onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow, gazing at Sherlock with admiration. He turns his head lazily and smiles at me.

"Can you just give me a warning next time?" I ask amiably, and we both know that I'm referring not only to the tickling.

"And have you all strung up and defensive? Not a chance in the world, John. And besides," he winks at me "you'll spoil all the fun."

Did I mention that he is insufferable? No? Ah, what the hell, I wouldn't have him any other way…

**Yep, you know the drill already... Prompts and ideas are appreciated...**


	7. Paint me a Dream by JennaEf

**Summary: John wakes up in handcuffs. Sherlock explains. But there's a third party watching over them… ****Based on a prompt by Pikeru's Angel. Thanks, it was a TOTAL pleasure to write :)**

**Warnings: mild swearing, mentioning of a drug use (sort of).**

Everything in this world has its soul. Even those objects which people grew accustomed to perceive as inanimate. Flats, for example.

Baker Street 221B is no different. The flat has its spirit, and said spirit holds a constant vigil over the flat's two tenants – the tall, dark-haired one, who calls himself the world's only consulting detective, and the shorter, dark blond one – a doctor and a soldier.

The spirit had seen, heard and felt many things. The bullet holes in the wall, when the dark-haired one gets bored and restless. The screams in the night, stifled by the pillow, when the doctor is trapped in a nightmare. The unending experiments, which tend to spread over all available surfaces. The detective and the doctor returning home on a numerous occasions looking a little worse for wear and taking care of each other's injuries. The shouting matches and the things being thrown in a direction of an annoying flatmate. The screeching of the violin in the middle of the night, when the detective pieces together the details of an ongoing case. The enticing aromas wafting through the flat, when the doctor tries to persuade his friend to eat something healthy. And finally, the rare occasions when two friends spend a quiet evening on a sofa, watching telly and simply relaxing after a day spent in chasing criminals across the streets of London.

Sometimes – and that's undoubtedly the detective's influence – the spirit chooses to do some experimenting of its own. Like narrowing the perception to the one and only source – visual, audio or sensual. For example, today it decides to hear…

A groan. A sound of someone shifting on the bed, the rustling of the fabric, and the unexpected clinking of metal.

A voice, raspy and confused. "What the hell… Sherlock!"

Footsteps on the stairs, door opening, and then closing. "Good morning, John". Footsteps coming towards the bed, slowing down, stopping.

"Morning," the clinking repeated. "Mind to explain?" the doctor's voice sounds edgy.

The detective shifts from foot to foot, inhales deeply, and breathes out. "I needed to stop you."

The doctor gasps, tries to sit up, hisses in pain. "WHAT?"

Footsteps closing the remaining distance. "Here, let me take care of that," more clinking, a slight click. "Better?"

Skin rubbing on skin, the sigh of relief. "Much. Thanks."

"Looks swollen. I can get you an icepack, if you want."

"I'll live. Start explaining."

And hearing the sounds simply not enough anymore, the spirit needs to see. The light comes in, the picture appears, wavers, comes into focus, sharp and clear.

The detective closes his eyes for a moment, sighs, opens them. "Can I sit down? It's a long story…"

The doctor pats his bed invitingly. "Of course. Be my guest."

The tall man gracefully sinks down on the bed, shifts slightly, getting himself comfortable. "I didn't expect that you'll return home early. You weren't supposed to open the door to the bathroom at that precise moment. I'm really sorry, John, it shouldn't have happened."

"Sherlock," the ex-army medic tries to keep his voice calm. "Start. Making. Sense. Please."

"While you were out, I've started a new experiment…"

"In the bathroom? Sherlock, I thought we agreed…"

"I was going to finish it before your return. You've surprised me. And unfortunately, got a lungful of my new chemical in the process."

"I… got drugged? By you?"

"As I've already said, I'm really sorry, John."

"And… the effects? What have I done? Something… bad or…" the doctor looks extremely uncomfortable, his forehead creased in worry.

"No, not at all," the detective hastens to reassure his friend. "On the contrary, it was… very nice."

"Nice?" the frown deepens. "Sherlock, can you FINALLY tell me everything directly?"

"Better than that, John, I can actually SHOW it to you," and the dark-haired man starts to unbutton his shirt.

"Show?" the ex-army medic is clearly on the brink of losing it, "Sherlock, for God sake! Oh…"

The purple shirt slides off the detective's shoulders, and the younger man makes a show of turning around slowly. When he completes his turn, the blond can't stop the gasp escaping his lips.

The spirit could totally agree with that reaction, because the pale white skin of the detective's back was clearly used as canvas, and the picture is… breathtaking.

The doctor reaches out with the trembling hand, but stops short of actually touching the skin. "I… did this?"

"Yes," the voice is quiet. "I didn't expect you to be… so masterful."

A quiet laughter. "Believe me, I'm sure as hell didn't expect it either. I mean, I can draw, but that…"

"John, you're babbling."

"I know, I know. The colour, though…"

"You said you wanted it to stay as long as possible. So… gentian violet."

"No kidding? Sherlock, that's…"

"I like it."

"Really?" a long pause. "Thank you. It actually… fits. The unicorn. I mean the symbolisation…"

"I know."

"Right. The handcuffs?"

"You were… ecstatic, wanted to continue. Not the best decision. Hence the handcuffs."

"Yes, obviously. Makes sense."

"Thanks for understanding," the detective pulls his shirt on, buttons it, rises from the bed and turns to face his companion. "Breakfast? I'm in the mood for cooking today."

"Then how can I refuse?"

"Good. Kitchen, fifteen minutes. Good?"

"Excellent."

The detective nods and strolls towards the door. His hand is on the doorknob, when the doctor calls his name.

"Sherlock?"

The detective turns and looks at his friend, eyebrow raised. "Yes, John?"

"I just wonder… If it was another way around, what would you've painted?"

The tall man is silent for a while, then he locks his eyes with the man on the bed. "Phoenix," he answers quietly, and leaves the room.

"Oh, Sherlock…" the doctor whispers, a gentle smile lighting up his face. "Thank you…"

Everything in this world has its soul. Even those objects which people grew accustomed to perceive as inanimate. Flats, for example.

But the spirit of Baker Street 221B knows one thing for certain. Without those two, his life would've been just a bleak shadow of everything he has now. So he watches, listens, feels. And secretly prays to outside spirits to keep the two friends safe and sound.

**Well… Prompts, anyone? We're always happy to take more, you know…**


	8. Blindingly obvious by JennaEf

**Summary: When Sherlock gets drunk, bad things happen...**** Which forces Mycroft to take matters in his own hands, and results in John finally getting his wish… Written for a prompt by Pikeru's Angel. Thanks again for letting me come out and play! ;)**

**Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade – established relationship, Sherlock/John UST.**

**Warnings: mild language, adult themes (nothing graphic).**

During his life, Sherlock sort of got used to waking up in strange places sometimes. Usually it happened after the moments when the consulting detective had been drugged, hit over the head or simply managed to forget about the necessity of food and rest again. But whatever was the cause of such occurrences, Sherlock had always clearly remembered the previous events.

This time it was different. Despite the splitting headache, his brain managed to present him with the swift analysis of his current condition: mentioned headache – check, uncomfortable position – check, various pains and aches – check, constant shivering due to the absence of the coat – check.

And finally, recollection about the way he had gotten here (wherever 'here' was) – none whatsoever.

Taking into consideration an awful taste in his mouth and the stench of alcohol coming from his suit, Sherlock came to the very alarming conclusion.

He actually got drunk. Again.

Moaning softly, the detective cracked open an eyelid, expecting at least to see his surroundings. But that hope had vanished almost instantly, because he saw nothing. He even opened and closed his both eyes several times – in case if there was something wrong with one of them.

Still nothing. Not even a scant flicker of light. He was in total darkness.

That definitely wasn't good. Not good at all.

He tried to move, and regretted it instantly, crying out as the excruciating pain shot through his left leg. The pain was so strong that Sherlock actually blacked out…

* * *

John stumbled into the kitchen in the morning, squinting from seemingly too-bright light, and made a slightly wavering beeline towards the kettle.

"A bit of a rough night, I guess?" Mycroft Holmes said conversationally from the living room, watching the blond doctor with mild interest.

John yelped and nearly jumped two feet in the air, then spun around, facing the older Holmes. "Don't bloody do that to me!" he snarled. "Are you trying to give me the heart attack?"

"And a good morning to you too, Doctor Watson. No need to ask how did you sleep, I gather?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" John really wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. His memories about the previous evening were very hazy, but one thing he remembered for certain – the heated argument with Sherlock in the restaurant and then his irritated flatmate storming out with the air of wounded dignity.

But no matter how hard he tried, the ex-army medic honestly couldn't remember how their quarrel had started. Although, judging by Mycroft's presence in the flat, he definitely was about to find out.

Surely enough, the politician brought the subject up pretty quickly. "To my certain knowledge, yesterday you've left the flat together approximately at 6 o'clock in the evening. And exactly 6 hours later you, Doctor Watson, had returned alone. Which brings an obvious question: where's my brother?"

John was amazed at the speed with which he had gotten into defensive-aggressive state. "If you're so well informed about the events, why are you asking me? Did one of your appointed henchmen managed to lose track of Sherlock?"

To his astonishment, Mycroft actually proceeded to give answers to his questions. "Contrary to your obvious belief, I'm not watching after my brother 24/7. Partly because I've entrusted YOU with this task. So would you be so kind to tell me what exactly happened yesterday, and where's Sherlock?"

John poured two cups of tea and brought them to the living room. "I have absolutely no idea," he confessed honestly. "I don't even remember why we were arguing in the first place."

"For now it's completely irrelevant, Doctor. Have you tried to contact him?"

"Have you?"

"His phone is switched off, but I think you know that already. I was referring to another means, specifically Sherlock's network."

"Well, as you had just said, it's Sherlock's network. And you know full well that your brother guards his secrets extremely well."

"Even from you?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I thought that with the level of closeness you two seem to be having there's no place for secrets already."

It took nearly two minutes for John to understand what the older Holmes was trying to say, and then the doctor huffed indignantly. "Just what the hell are you talking about?"

For a moment, the politician looked genuinely surprised. "So you're not…" he said slowly, and then his face regained its customary impassive expression.

"Not what?" John asked, irritation rapidly transforming into confusion. Could Mycroft Holmes, of all people, seriously be implying…

The loud chirping of Mycroft's mobile shattered the uncomfortable silence, and the older man took the call immediately.

"Mycroft Holmes. Yes… That's good. When? Thank you, Gregory. I'll be waiting for your call. No, take your time and be safe, there's no hurry now… Fine," Mycroft hung up and smiled slightly. "Our problem is partly resolved, Doctor. And while we wait for our… means of conveyance to arrive, there's a highly important matter that we should discuss..."

* * *

Sherlock faded in and out of consciousness, discerning the two states only by presence or absence of pain. During the short moments of lucidity he tried to check himself for injuries without jarring his obviously broken leg. The final list included said leg, possibly cracked ribs, bruised (by the feel of it) right shoulder and a gash on his head, which was already clotted over. The blood had almost dried, forming patches of crust in his hairs. Each movement seemed to bring a wave of nausea and a flaring headache, which, as his rational mind helpfully supplied, clearly indicated a concussion. All things considered, he needed immediate medical attention, so the next waking moments were spent in search of his phone. Truth to be said, Sherlock wasn't at all surprised to find his favourite gadget missing. It made perfect sense – he was definitely left to die in the darkness, without means of survival.

There was only one flaw in his unknown enemy's plan.

The world's only consulting detective always had sort of a fail-safe solution. Although, should somebody decide to ask him about it directly, he would have denied that fact with the vehemence.

Sherlock's numb fingers tugged at the silver chain around his neck, bringing the small medallion out. Finding a square button on the smooth surface, the younger man pressed it, causing the red LED to start flashing rhythmically.

Now all he had to do is wait and in the meantime try to remember what happened.

Sherlock's adversaries always tended to overlook one obvious fact.

Having an older brother was a huge tactical advantage. Especially when said brother appeared to be the British government itself.

* * *

John sat in the chair across from Mycroft, his posture rigid and tense. After the last politician's words the doctor was fairly sure that he was about to become a subject of thorough tongue-lashing.

He definitely should've known by now that none of the Holmes brothers were predictable.

Long elegant fingers turned the cup on the table slightly. "What are your intentions towards my brother, Doctor Watson?"

He was DEFINITELY mishearing that. "I'm sorry, what?"

A slight smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft's lips. "Don't worry, you've heard everything correctly. And you can skip the indignation act – I know exactly what I'm asking you about."

Actually, the indignation was the last thing on John's mind – he was too stunned for that. "What… How..," he spluttered. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The politician rolled his eyes and gave a longsuffering sigh. "Don't make me think that I've overestimated your intelligence. You're perfectly capable of fooling Sherlock – because frankly, my brother can be annoyingly ignorant sometimes. But I, as onlooker, see things from the different perspective. So let me repeat my question: what are your intentions?"

John felt his body sag helplessly. "Am I that obvious?"

The older man looked at him with unexpected compassion. "Sadly, not for Sherlock."

"How long had you knew?"

Another smile. "Straight from the beginning. You're the perfect match for my brother, and I'm glad that you chose to stay, John."

The blond answered with the smile of his own. "Well, it's not like I actually had a choice, hadn't I?" Part of him was amazed by the fact of himself accepting the situation so easily – as if discussing his attraction to Sherlock was the most natural thing in his life. But oddly enough, with Mycroft Holmes it DID feel natural.

"I guess not," the older Holmes confirmed, sounding quite seriously. "So, seeing as we established that, can I expect you to finally act on it?"

"I think we need to find him first for that to happen," John reminded softly.

As on cue, Mycroft's mobile chirped again, and the older Holmes immediately rose from the chair. "Agreed. Shall we, John?"

The ex-army medic, however, remained sitting. The whole situation still felt completely bizarre, and although he accepted the possibility of its existence, he sure as hell wasn't going to rush anywhere without asking some questions first.

But the politician, it seemed, was absolutely prepared for that. "Something's bothering you?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow.

The good doctor was obviously fighting with himself. "No… Yes," he paused, gathering his wits. "Well, it's complicated…"

"I'm sure it is, John," Mycroft smiled slightly. "This is Sherlock we're talking about. Everything related to him tends to be… unusual."

"Sort of part of the package, I guess," the blond agreed thoughtfully. "But that doesn't explain YOUR obvious interest in getting us together."

"Fair question," the older man nodded, hooking the handle of his ever-present umbrella over the right arm. "But I suggest that we continue this conversation in the car. After all, we have a sort of emergency, don't you think?"

"Of course," the ex-army medic followed his guest out of the flat, expecting to see the already familiar black car parked outside.

What he actually saw made him freeze in his tracks.

Leaning casually against the side of his own car, arms crossed over his chest, the driver stood, waiting patiently for them to appear. 'I should be surprised,' John mused, seeing Mycroft cross the distance in a few strides and greet the driver warmly. The man returned the gesture with equal affection, and turned his attention to John.

"Evening, Doctor," he said, keeping his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "So you'll be joining us for the rescue mission, I've heard?"

"Definitely, Inspector," the blond doctor walked towards the car slowly, still processing the new information. The interactions between the two men were practically screaming of them being together for quite some time, so John just couldn't stop himself from asking. "So how long are you…"

"Almost a year," Lestrade removed his hand from his partner's shoulder and opened the rear door of his car for John. "Since the pool incident. We'd actually met there."

John slid onto the back seat and watched as the two men went around the car to the front door, which Gregory proceeded to open with the flourish. Mycroft nodded gratefully and got in the car. Lestrade shut the door after him, went around the car again and took his place behind the wheel.

"I guess there's no point in asking about your agenda now," John said, smiling knowingly.

The politician remained silent, but DI glanced at the ex-army medic through the rear-view mirror. "You don't seem surprised," he remarked casually.

John shrugged his shoulders. "When you live with Sherlock Holmes on a daily basis, you kind of stop being surprised eventually."

"I guess you're right," Lestrade turned the key in the ignition, starting the car.

The strong purr of the car's engine brought an immediate reaction from Mycroft. "I take that you know our destination already, Greg?"

"Sure thing," Gregory Lestrade nodded shortly. "Sussex".

The older Holmes didn't look surprised at all. "Most engaging," he remarked thoughtfully, buckling his seat belt. "Abandoned mansion, I guess?"

DI nodded, and John simply decided NOT to ask. Lestrade turned the steering wheel slightly, getting the car into the traffic lane, and their journey began. Leaning back, the blond closed his eyes and tried to come to terms with everything that happened since the moment he woke up this morning.

To tell the truth, the good doctor himself recently started considering the idea of bringing his relationship with Sherlock on the next level. They were quite comfortable around each other physically, and John, little by little, started wondering what it would feel like – to be with Sherlock in the full sense of the word. The detective must've been sensing something, and was clearly uncomfortable with that unwanted knowledge – hence their more frequent arguments over almost everything lately. Speaking of which – now John knew for sure why Sherlock bolted the previous evening. They both were slightly drunk, and John must've let the proverbial cat out of the bag finally. So all he could do now is hope that he hadn't ruined everything with that drunken confession…

* * *

To say that Sherlock was angry was to say nothing.

Sherlock was furious.

With himself.

He was a detective, for Christ's sake, he was supposed to notice things right away and act accordingly.

So why it took the necessity of him being partially incapacitated to finally get a bloody clue?

It was here, all this time, right under his nose. The fleeting glances, the lingering touches, the gentle care, the infinite trust…

He was an idiot. Blind, stupid, selfish idiot.

The cold, rational part of his mind piped in, remarking that he was emotionally unstable due to the concussion, but Sherlock squashed those thoughts ruthlessly.

It was time to finally face the truth.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, the self-proclaimed sociopath, the freak, the cold-hearted bastard, etc. etc… was… in love?

Impossible.

Sherlock turned the word over and over in his mind, trying to correlate it with his persona.

Difficult.

Evidence. That, he could work with. Cold, hard facts, that could be systematised, catalogued, put in the neat little boxes with labels on them.

Not the feelings.

Messy, uncomfortable, unreliable, unpredictable stuff. A hindrance, a nuisance, a chink in his armour.

He tried to fight it, unconsciously, all this time. He snapped, snarled, retorted acidly, argued, provoked.

Attempted to push John away.

But the good doctor just kept coming back. Put up with everything that Sherlock threw at him, ignored the jabs, and tolerated the insults.

That alone should've been a clue.

Sherlock sighed and severed that train of thoughts resolutely. No point in making assumptions, he just needed to face it when the time comes.

He just hoped that it will come soon, because he was starting to get alarmingly numb and cold…

* * *

"You seem to know the terrain exceptionally well," John remarked, trailing after the two men, which were strolling towards the old country house determinedly.

Mycroft briefly glanced at him over his shoulder. "Accurate observation, John. That's because it's actually our family property. Sherlock tends to hide here when the times get rough. Something had gone wrong this time though; he wouldn't have activated his recall beacon otherwise."

"Recall beacon?" the blond asked, frowning in confusion.

"Sherlock wears a silver medallion around his neck. There's a small device inside, which when it had been activated by Sherlock himself, allows the surveillance system to track him."

"He actually agreed to wear such a thing?" John was really surprised.

"Let's just say that I have a talent of persuasion when I need to," the politician answered evasively.

"Somehow, I don't doubt it," muttered John under his breath. "So what's the plan?"

"Search the house from basement to the roof. We need to split up in order to cover more ground," Mycroft effortlessly slipped on his authority persona. "John, would you be so kind to take the basement? I and Gregory are going to search the floors."

'Why I'm not surprised?' John thought sarcastically, but chose not to argue, especially because right at that moment they finally got to the front door and found it wide open.

John and Gregory simultaneously moved forward, unconsciously shielding Mycroft. There were a clear signs of struggle in the entrance hall, and although it was highly doubtful that Sherlock's attacker – or attackers – had stayed in the house, the two men weren't going to take any chances.

The traces of blood led them into the kitchen and ended near the closed hatch. Combining their efforts, the three men pulled the cover of the hatch open – and down there, on the cold stone floor, Sherlock lay, clearly unconscious.

The next few hours for John went in a blur. They went into the basement, assessed Sherlock's injuries, questioned the almost delirious detective when he briefly regained his senses, established that he remembered nothing about the events of the previous few hours, called the paramedics and accompanied their charge into the hospital.

And only when Sherlock was resting comfortably on the bed, his wounds cleared and patched up, John's head finally seemed to stop spinning. He sat in the plastic chair near his friend's bed and let himself drift away…

* * *

Waking up this time was almost pleasurable. The pain was gone; the bed was quite comfortable and finally, John was here, asleep in the uncomfortable hospital chair.

And the moment Sherlock saw John, the world around ceased to exist.

Next hour the detective spent desperately trying to stay awake, afraid to miss the moment when his friend finally chose to return from the land of dreams. He made John wait for so long – it was only fair to finally reciprocate.

And precisely an hour later, the sleep-dulled tawny eyes opened, instantly coming in contact with the grey-blue ones.

The younger man cleared his throat nervously, but said nothing.

John just continued to look at him, unreadable expression on his face.

Sherlock started to fidget, put out by his friend's cryptic behaviour.

A smile slowly spread on John's face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're an idiot," he drawled affectionately.

Sherlock blinked. John sighed. Neither of them moved.

It was John who finally made a decision. In one smooth move he perched himself on the bed and placed his palms on the pillow on either side of Sherlock's head.

The younger man held his breath.

"Hey," John said softly.

"Hey yourself," Sherlock murmured, licking his suddenly dry lips.

John leaned down slowly, Sherlock moved up, and they met halfway…

* * *

"Took them long enough," Lestrade remarked, dragging Mycroft away from the door and closing it carefully.

"Everything comes if a man will only wait," the politician quoted, smiling slightly.

"God, I hate when you do that!" Lestrade said, a long-suffering expression appearing on his face. "Okay, I give up. Who?"

Mycroft clicked his tongue, shaking his head reproachfully. "Not even going to try, Detective Inspector?"

"Trying to outsmart either of Holmes brothers is a totally lost case. Humour me."

"Disraeli. And I think we should definitely pay serious attention to your education this evening, my dear Inspector…"

**Okay… Prompts, anyone? 'Cos we're always happy to have more, you know…**


	9. The music of your soul by JennaEf

**Summary: John gets fed up with Sherlock's late night concerts, and decides to teach his flatmate a lesson. But he DEFINITELY should've known better, because things are rarely tend to go according to a plan, when Sherlock is involved… Written for a prompt by LuffyMarra. I hope you'll enjoy!**

It's a quarter to midnight when John gently pulls his recently bought clarinet from its case and raises it to his lips. He's slightly nervous about his decision; but the door to his room is locked from the inside, and nothing can stop him now.

He finally had enough. He loves music, he really does; and he honestly admires his flatmate's talents. But even he, battle-hardened, experienced ex-army medical doctor, has his limits…

* * *

At first he thought that he'll get used to it – the unbearable, unimaginable cacophony of paroxysmal sounds, heralding the impetuous thought processes of his friend.

He should've known better.

Because in order to get used to something, you need said something to be predictable somehow.

And being predictable is the last thing one can accuse Sherlock Holmes of.

There weren't so many options for John, actually. Only three, in fact – sleeping pills, earplugs or trying to speak with Sherlock about that.

And the first two options were just the temporary measures before the whole situation inevitably would segue into necessity of third.

No wonder that John finally chose the third option. And after one of his most restless nights, when Sherlock seemed to be having a blast and John was getting the mother of all headaches, the ex-army medic firmly decided to bring up the topic of his flatmate's night insanities first thing in the morning.

Sherlock proceeded to hear everything John had to say, paying full attention and not interrupting at all.

Then he apologised, and John started to relax, thinking that the worst was over. But Sherlock continued, and John's hopes were shattered instantly.

"I'm sorry, John, but I had warned you right from the start. Playing the violin is essential for me in order to think properly. There is no other way. You have to cope."

So John tried to cope. He really did. Sleeping pills and earplugs made an appearance again, and then became customary. At least earplugs did, because sleeping pills made John 'too slow on the uptake', according to Sherlock's not-so-subtle characterisation.

It really hurt, especially because John was actually doing it for Sherlock. Which he chose to point out in his own defense; and Sherlock immediately dealt him a quite painful blow, declaring that he expected John 'to cope, not to degrade'.

The ex-army medic managed to swallow the insult silently. But if anyone had actually bothered to look into his eyes – which the consulting detective had absolutely neglected to do – he would have definitely staggered back with the force of raw anger that was raging in the dark depth. It lasted just a few seconds, and after that the doctor managed to regain his control; but deep inside his mind a thought started shaping itself into a plan...

* * *

John hadn't played the clarinet since school, and it took awhile for him to remember the basics and start playing even half-decently.

But for his plan half-decently simply wasn't enough. For that plan to succeed, John's level of playing should be masterly, no less. So he kept practicing, as often as he had the chance to spare some time for it. At first, he did it only when Sherlock was absent – usually it was after John's night shifts, when the doctor was returning to their flat early in the morning, and Sherlock was already leaving for one reason or another. But John was really exhausted after his work, so the effectiveness of his sessions was fairly low.

So finally John struck some sort of a deal with Mrs Hudson in order to gain access to 221C for practicing his playing skills. The conditions of that deal were quite simple – when John told their landlady why he needed the room in the basement, she had agreed right away on a condition that she would be allowed to hear him playing. Of course he pointed out that he wasn't so good at it yet, but she firmly brushed his excuses aside.

"Nonsense, dearie. And let me be the judge of that, anyway."

John had no other choice but to agree, and during the next two weeks they had developed some sort of evening ritual. John kept his clarinet in Mrs Hudson's flat, and the first two evenings the two of them had spent in the basement. But on the third day she persuaded him to stay in her flat – 'you'll be more comfortable here, Love' – and he agreed with eagerness, because frankly, that basement room turned to be quite dreadful – damp, small, with half-peeled wallpapers hanging from walls, and finally, too empty for John's liking.

And so, John's sessions were continued in the comfort of their landlady's flat, and his skills had gradually progressed and honeyed almost into perfection – for his level, anyway; he really hadn't hoped to outdo Sherlock, and more importantly, hadn't needed to do that. For his one-time strike, his current development was quite enough.

Speaking of Sherlock – John was really surprised that his flatmate seemed to be totally indifferent about the fact of John's short but frequent absence in the evenings. Granted, Sherlock did enquire in the beginning as to where John was going. And the doctor managed to conjure up a plausible explanation, which seemed to satisfy the detective completely. So after that conversation, Sherlock obviously just took John's absence for granted; and despite the relief at avoiding the possible interrogation, John was slightly hurt by Sherlock's indifference. But, on the other hand, it gave him the perfect opportunity to continue his exercises, so everything levelled out, he guessed.

And finally, the crucial day had come. John carefully sneaked his clarinet back in his room the previous evening, and Mrs Hudson hugged him tightly, wishing them both well.

"God knows, Sherlock had deserved a little lesson, my dear," their landlady-not-housekeeper said warmly. "Let's hope that it teaches him something. And be careful, Love..."

* * *

He starts playing, and the moment later there's a loud crush down below, followed by the distinct sound of explosion. It's not exactly what John had expected, and, quickly shoving the instrument under the pillow, he reaches the door in a couple of leaps, unlocks it and hurries downstairs.

Sherlock is standing near the kitchen table, the fire extinguisher in his hands and a dazed expression on his face. The table is covered completely with the thick layer of foam, and the sleeve of Sherlock's dressing gown appears to be smouldering, so John marches right up to him, knocks the extinguisher out of his flatmate's hands and, gripping the collar of the silk piece of clothing, practically yanks it off, revealing the red angry burns on his friend's pale arm.

"What the hell happened?" John asks, grabbing the first aid kit and steering his flatmate toward the sofa.

"I dropped the beaker," Sherlock says absentmindedly. "I thought I heard... John, what are you doing?"

"You burned your arm, Sherlock. I need to treat it."

"Oh," his friend says. "John, did you hear it too?"

"Hear what?" the doctor asks, taking care of his friend's injury quickly and efficiently. Of course he knows to what Sherlock is referring; and he also knows that he unwillingly hurt his friend, so he pretends not to understand.

"The music, John," the younger man says dreamily. "I think it was the clarinet... Perfect."

Sherlock almost whispers the last word, and John hastily ducks his head, afraid to give himself away.

Perfect?...

John places the clarinet in its case reverently, closes it, and puts the case at the bottom of his wardrobe, vowing not to touch it ever again. He never intended his plan to be harmful, just wanted to make Sherlock understand. But now Sherlock is sleeping soundly downstairs, doused with the painkillers, and there isn't going to be the usual concert in the middle of the night, because the great detective is barely able to move his burned arm.

* * *

A week of quiet nights goes by, and John is ready to confess in his crime, seeing the anguished looks that Sherlock throws in the direction of his beloved violin; but then, the next night, something unexpected happens.

It's 4 A.M., when John is woken again by the sound of Sherlock's violin. Sighing in exasperation, the doctor flings the covers off, ready to march downstairs and throw a tantrum about his friend's obvious disregard to his health, but something stops him.

He takes a moment to listen closely, and suddenly realises that the music is familiar.

Sherlock is actually trying to repeat John's disastrous piece.

The doctor gets back under the covers, and listens, allowing the music to lull him back into sleep...

Out of curiosity, John plays another tune in the following evening, and Sherlock repeats it confidently at 4 A.M.

It progresses further, and in the next day John finds the music sheet of 'Duo for clarinet and violin' folded inside his clarinet case. The piece is fairly complex, and it takes three days for John to finally play his entire part in the evening; and of course Sherlock plays his - again exactly at 4 A.M.

The next evening John leaves the door to his bedroom half-open, sets his alarm at 3.55 A.M. and places the clarinet on the bedside table.

John wakes up at 3.50 A.M., disables the alarm and lays waiting. There's a short prompt from Sherlock ten minutes later, when he begins to play his part, then ends it abruptly. John does likewise, and soon there are a footsteps coming up the stairs to his room. The doctor flicks the lamp on, and a moment later the detective steps into the room, his bow already posed above the violin.

They exchange glances, then both close their eyes and start playing...

When the music ends, John opens his eyes slowly and looks at Sherlock. The detective is seems to be frozen on the spot, but a moment later his eyes flutter open, and the doctor finds himself drowning in their dreamy depts.

"Sherlock, I..," he begins, but his friend just smiles and shakes his head slightly.

"Good night, John," he says quietly, then turns around and walks out of the room, leaving John with a sudden realisation.

No words are needed; the music said it all...

In the morning, John finds a note from Sherlock on the fridge, written across the blank music paper; he reads it with curiosity, and it makes him want to groan and smile at the same time. He settles for the delighted chuckle in the end.

_Fancy a Tuesday night concert from now on? SH._

* * *

**A.N.: If anyone interested as to what they were playing, feel free to take a peak: http: / www. youtube. com / watch?v = Pe3-l2bTd6I (just take off the blanks).**

**Oh, and prompts are welcome, as usual...**

**P.S.: for those who are curious about Tuesday night concerts - there's a sequel to this chapter. It's called "Forever in a dream", and posted as a separate multichaptered story. It's going to be slash, so you had been warned. Don't like it - don't read.  
**


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